Heartlines
by MissNightshade144
Summary: "I'm sick Delphine." Three words. Three words that made Delphine's world grind to a halt. Three words that linger and haunt like ghosts, burn and remain like scars. Three words that emerge in the shades of the evening, that scream in the red and the coughing, that lurk among the emotion shining in those pale-gold eyes and throb of her veins, heartlines running beneath her skin.


**A/N Hi y'all! This is my first fanfic for Orphan Black, and I literally found out about the series two weeks ago and I have simply become obsessed! In between scouring the internet for episodes that people have sneakily uploaded, and getting over all my Cophine feels and freak-outs, this idea began forming until the point that I simply had to write it down! And after an afternoon of undisturbed writing, this came about! Now, technically I haven't seen the finale (I'm PVR-ing it in a couple weeks when it re-runs on Space) but I have seen the Cosima/Delphine parts of the finale, and once I stopped freaking out at how adorable Tatiana Maslany's little lip-quiver-thing was, this fic came about from that inspiration! I must say in advance that, although I have taken French for a while in school, it is not my first language and I am nowhere near fluent, so I apologize if there are any errors there! Other than that, enjoy!**

**-Nightshade**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Orphan Black, though I sure wish I did!**

Heartlines

"_I'm sick Delphine."_

Three words. As a scientist, if someone had ever told me that someday in my life, I'd find three little words becoming my greatest adversary, I probably would have scoffed, muttered a brusque;

"_Ce que des conneries"_, and carried on. As a scientist, I would have imagined my greatest challenges to be well, scientific. Deadlines and troubling experiments, hypotheses that don't quite fit. But of course, my current situation was one that I could have never imagined for myself. Far from the fanciful images of chrome-and-glass labs of the future, the most brilliant scientists working metres from me, that Leekie had pitched to me. Plutôt, I was in a musky, unkempt apartment in Toronto, graffiti shrouding it like a skin, with my current experiment, a word which I had a hard time associating with the quirky, amazing woman as of now, curled against my body, crying into my shoulder.

"_I'm sick Delphine"_

I couldn't stop hearing her voice, over and over, the words bouncing about in my head, no part of my brain willing to accept them, simply shoving them away. It's like those words, those damned three words were engraved into my memory, along with all the other details of the moment my world was flipped head-over-heels. The resigned little sigh she gave before slumping back against the couch in defeat, the tentative manner in which she turned to look at me, the way her lip trembled, the vulnerability in her soft golden eyes, the tug at my heart. The unsettling feeling of the earth's rotation grinding to a halt. I wanted to tell her so many things in return, but I couldn't. I wanted to tell her that what she had was curable, that there was a drug or a therapy or a transplant already out there that she just hadn't come upon yet. I wanted to tell her that, if nothing already existed, I would cure her. I wanted to say that I'd work myself to death until I found a cure. I wanted to tell her that there was still hope, because there had to be. She felt so small all of a sudden, like my arms could close around her and she'd fade away. As I rubbed my hand up and down the sculpted curve of her back I counted her ribs, traversed her vertebrae, suddenly wishing that the soft woolen fabric of her dress wasn't in the way. Wishing that I could commit every piece of her to memory, unhindered. Leekie truly was a liar. He told me she was an experiment, a specimen, he told me she was 324B21. But she wasn't at all. She was miraculous, one-of-a-kind in a way that a standard-issued ID tag number could never cover. An experiment is sterile, emotionless, something one picks up, gains information from, then puts away. Cosima however was anything but emotionless. She was emotion in purity, pulsing redness, fiery emotion distilled to the point of intensity. One look in those eyes, those delicate golden-brown films that kept all her emotion from spilling out, and it was impossible to step back from her. Her paper-thin chest slowed in its quaking, and despite my awkward position I refused to move an inch. I'd been shut out of her world before, by my own complete stupidity, and I wasn't about to have that happen again. I remember it clearly, the crystalline-sharpness of the memory coming to mind, standing in her apartment, surrounded by the heady, herby scent of jasmine, lavender, cannabis and sage mingled with a perfume that was unique to the shorter woman, while she told me that she knew. How she knew everything and still trusted me. How I'd betrayed her in the worst possible way. How I was the danger. The rough, agonized, powerless sob that I heard as I left her beautiful little world was still haunting me. She just kept repeating;

"_I'm so stupid, I'm such an idiot" _over and over, repeating, stupid, idiot, blaming the wrong person. Even as I stood before her, realizing that I'd been disloyal to her for nothing, that the only threat to her safety was my supposed concern, and she still blamed herself. I was unsure whether to defend my own actions, or to take the blame because she was not to blame, in any way. I was the snake in the grass, blindly thinking it was doing nature a favor by stalking the mouse. I was the stupid one.

"_Je suis l'idiot." _I mentally murmured, the words fitting, but not pleasantly. Like the bite of handcuffs when one knows they deserved to be caught for their crime. Cosima finally sat up, still sniffling, her nose scrunched up and reddened in a manner that somehow managed to be impossibly endearing. I didn't want her to move any further, stopping her with my hands upon her face. I cradled her jawline, slight like that of a fairy or sprite, using my thumbs to wipe tears from the surface of her cheeks.

"Why are you even here?" she asked, her voice reedy from disuse and the crying, and the sentence cracked in the middle, like the load was too heavy for her to bear. Simply the slipped note, the little stumble, was enough to make tears burn behind my eyes and in the backs of my sinuses. I wanted to be coy, be what was it? Cheeky? Oui, I wished I had the energy to respond with something cheeky to make her smile once more, but I couldn't find it within me. Her question was so bare and sincere that I couldn't respond with anything but the truth.

"Because this is where you are, ma chérie." I murmured, scooting forward and causing the abused couch beneath me to groan painfully, so I could press my forehead to hers. The few centimetres of distance had become too much, it was like I couldn't be around her without touching her at all times. Like I needed it more than oxygen, food, sleep. She looked up at me, her golden-bronze eyes seeming impossibly large and vulnerable as they peered through her glasses frames. Logically, I knew that this was because of the refraction through the lenses, causing the image behind to seem closer and therefore bigger. But it still served to make her look even more adorable, even more delicate, and juste un peu magique, perhaps?

"But I'm not even a person, really. I'm just a mass of genetic material that someone else has patented, that someone else owns. I'm 324B21. Not Cosima Niehaus, not a PhD student at University of Minnesota, but experimental subject number 324B21. One of many. Not a person. Just a… a reproduction of humanity." She muttered, shaking her head against mine, spewing the ugly words. For once in my life, I wished she would stop talking. I wished she would stop talking because none of what she spoke was true. Nothing. And if she stopped then perhaps I could convince her so.

"Cosima…" I crooned softly, moving my one hand from her cheek, trailing it down her neck until it rested upon her shoulder. I brushed over the curve of her collarbone, admiring its artful curve beneath my hand. Like the slim, strong line of a huntress' bow.

"And, that's not even the kicker here! I'm not just a copy of a real person, I'm a shitty copy! I'm flawed, I have this, this sickness. I'm self-destructing and no one has a clue why. I'm worthless really, I'm a failure as an experiment. I'm just destined to die as one. A poorly-crafted mimicry of a person. Perhaps they'll have done better with 324B22." Her shoulders sagged under the weight of her thoughts, her poisonous, terrible thoughts. She had pulled away, gesturing wildly with her hands as she spoke, crying with a contradictory smile on her face. A smile of disbelief, of irony, something to hide behind.

"So seriously, why are you here? Wouldn't you rather spend time with a real person, a real person whose body isn't failing the-" her rant was cut off by a shallow and rapid breath in, the air hovering in her throat before she began violently convulsing, coughing roughly. Her hands came up to cover her mouth as she shook, her lungs crackling and groaning like trees in a windstorm, minutes from being uprooted. The sight was terrifiant pour moi, terrifying, the physical manifestation of her earlier words, the truth, plain and unpleasant.

"_I'm sick Delphine."_

The spasms overtook her with a fearful ferocity, like someone had snuck up from behind her and was slowly strangling her. She was all trembling and motion, rigidity, crackling, redness and white flashes of panic. Her eyes were wide with fear as she hacked, gasping for breath between rattling coughs. Motivated by her fear I moved closer, ignoring her garbled protest, wedging my torso in behind her, rubbing her back, feeling her lungs crackle and flimsily heave beneath my hands. I leaned forward, nestling my head in the crook of shoulder, murmuring in her ear, hoping to soothe her as she bent over from the sheer exertion of the coughing.

"Shh, sois calme, sois calme." I murmured gently, wishing I could still her trembling frame, quell the convulsions, ease her pain. The first breath she managed was such a relief to me that I almost cried out, though Cosima still shook in my grasp.

"You're alright Cosima, you're alright chérie." I purred, trying to mask my shock at the angry slap of red that coated her palms as she brought them away from her face. I could tell that she was distraught, her trembling now indicative that she was fighting back tears. I quickly got up, despite the emptiness I felt the second I stepped away from her, to look for some mouchoirs, some tissues, and I managed to find some paper towels in the kitchenette of the apartment. Wetting them with warm water, I returned to my trembling little dear, my chérie, who was still fighting tears, doubled over on the couch, staring at the drying blood upon her palms. I knelt down in front of her, gently taking her hands in mine and dabbing the redness away with the paper towel, watching it dye the whiteness pink, watching it taint the purity. Cosima seemed ashamed by it, and I didn't want her to be. Her illness changed nothing about my feelings for her. They were still confused, slightly frightening, yet pure and caring to the core.

"You're okay." I soothed, wiping away at a smear of her own blood upon her lip, which was still shuddering. I sat back on the couch, still holding her now-damp hands in one of mine, the other one tilting her chin up to look me in the eye.

"You are just as human as anyone I've ever met. Beautifully so, perfectly so. Your illness is not a flaw, and it doesn't make you less of a human. You are unique, and emotional, and smart, and everything a human should be. Maintenant, can you feel this?" I asked, cupping her cheek, feeling her impossibly soft skin beneath the pads of my fingers, feeling her warmth. The question was rhetorical, so I didn't expect an answer, and I carried on.

"You do feel it, you feel things, you are alive, you are a person Cosima, a unique person. You aren't a number, because a number doesn't describe you. You can't look at an ID tag and know that you have the most radiant smile, or recall the way you talk fast when you ramble, or imagine the way that your hands are always busy, or be amused at how you are a bit of a brat sometimes. You are Cosima Niehaus, that's who that person is, not 324B21." I smirked slightly as I insisted, my eyes scanning her beautiful form. She was a work of art, from the alabaster skin upon her forehead to each toe on her foot, each of her dreadlocks, each of her smiles and facial expressions, each new shade of her. She had a lithe yet curvy physique which would put the greatest sculptor to shame. The emotion, the colors, the vibrancy within her eyes was something that even the most renowned artist could never reproduce.

"You are more than a person, you are a work of art, tu es un miracle, Cosima. It doesn't matter how you came to be. C'est immatériel. You must believe that." I insisted. My accent grew thicker as I became more and more desperate, more and more passionate. I just had to make her believe it. I knew I couldn't say it, not yet, those other three words, 'I love you'. So I had to make her feel them, I had to make her know them, believe them. I leaned forward; keeping her chin tipped up to face me, and kissed her fully upon the mouth. It was still a new thing to me, kissing a woman, but in a good way. It was gentler, sweeter, more equal. Cosima was never rough or pushy, never made it seem like kissing was simply… a chore on the way to getting sex like others might have. It was like every kiss was a message, a way of her to convey her feelings to me, a way of expressing vulnerability, pain, happiness, passion, sadness. They were always a new experience with her. A part of me felt slightly self-conscious for doing such things in someone else's apartment, but I also didn't care. The only thing I cared about was the bittersweet taste of Cosima's lips, and the heavenly feeling that her tongue was eliciting against mine. I took in a deep breath, inhaling Cosima, her heady perfume of sage, lavender, cardamom or cinnamon, cannabis or perhaps chamomile. I couldn't, comment est-ce qu'on dit, put my finger upon it? My fingers moved into her hair, tangling among the deep brown dreadlocks, toying with the intricate weaving, as I felt her reciprocate, tracing her long, gentle fingers through my own hair.

"Incroyable." I breathed, still so close that I could feel her lips against mine as I talked. She cracked a wary smile, looking back up into my eyes as she softly chuckled, looking a little stunned.

"I understood that one." She whispered back to me. My head was getting blurry the longer I stayed so close to her, so I leaned back, trying to find some clarity. I was still uneasy, still confused by her immediate trust in me once again. I felt unworthy of her acceptance. I still felt dirty, felt my skin crawling where Leekie touched me before. Here Cosima was, eyes wide and vulnerable, she could be very vulnerable when she felt like she trusted you, but that was the thing. She shouldn't trust me. She must've noticed my face fall or something of the sort, she was very observant after all, because she immediately spoke up.

"What 'sup?" she asked, furrowing her slim brows behind her glasses. I opened my mouth, but the words weren't coming. Out of the corner of my eyes I could see her playing with my hands, splaying her fingers against mine before interlocking them, bending them about and around, watching each joint in her delicate fingers flex, making mine work in tandem along with hers. It was fascinating yes, how one person's actions directly influenced those of another. How a ripple becomes a tidal wave, so to say. Until someone found their life irreparably changed by someone else. By solely their ripples.

"_I'm sick Delphine."_

"Cosima I…" I murmured, shaking my head a bit. My mouth was open, but nothing was coming out. It was like Cosima earlier during her attack. Like her, I couldn't seem to get a breath in. the attentive woman noticed this, and her posture visibly softened, her hand moving from mine and instead tracing up and down my arm. Her touch was… peculiar I suppose, I couldn't quite find the proper word. It could be so many things. One minute it could be fiery, sexy, sensuelle, and the next she could be relaxing and calm.

"Delphine…" she urged, her eyes widening even more. I just wanted the question to go away, I wanted to be free to just sit here and lose myself in her, to forget everything but the warm burgundy-redness she embodied, the intricate plaiting of her hair, the warm gold of her eyes, pale like those of a lioness.

"Why would you trust me? I, I do not deserve your forgiveness so quickly." I murmured, dropping my gaze. I felt exposed all of a sudden, vulnerable. I wasn't sure I liked it. Especially since my insecurities gave Cosima a prime chance to come to her senses and realize I could not be trusted. The lightness, the dormant smile within her face trickled away, leaving in its wake a waxing frown.

"Well, there are multiple reasons why, I suppose. Scientifically it resembles the phenomena studied by those such as Dr. Eckhard Hess, and imprinting, whereupon he designed an experiment which ducklings were placed upon a circular track, and were given a decoy to imprint upon. Then he used mild electric shocks to theoretically cause a negative association towards the decoy, and deter the ducklings from following. Contrarily to their beliefs, the unpleasant sensations ended up causing the ducklings to imprint more strongly to their fake parent. Their fear response, their uncertainty, caused them to bond more quickly. It seemed as though the more effort expended during the bonding process, the stronger the bond, no matter whether conditions were unpleasant. These results are also quite similar to another study done on-" she stopped midway through her ramble, hands frozen in midair as she talked, looking un peu sheepish and apologetic.

"So… you're a duckling?" I asked, hoping to lighten up the situation, trying to crack a smile despite the weight still lingering upon my chest and the slightest confusion about her little rambling.

"No, well yes, but not in the literal sense, ugh sorry I tend to get off topic and such. But I don't know why I let you back in so quickly. Perhaps it's because you seemed to be trying to protect me, in your own misguided way, or maybe it's because I'm just stupid and refuse to learn when it comes to you, or maybe it's because I feel it too. This. And this feeling can't be a lie." She murmured, gesturing between us where we sat. Her bracelets jingled as she moved, like bells.

"I'm so, so sorry, je suis tellement désolée." I repeated, willing mes emotions not to overtake me. I felt like I could never stop apologizing, never stop being sorry. I'd, quite blindly, given out the names of her family members, her 'sisters', since Alison had apparently banned the 'C-word', to someone who was much more dangerous to them than I could have predicted. If they came into danger, then it was my fault, non?

"I know, it's okay." She reassured. She was so damn understanding, too understanding. I still felt like I didn't deserve it. Cosima however, was stubbornly trying to convince me otherwise, soothingly rubbing the back of my neck until I saw her blanch considerably. She went rigid, and for a second I thought she was going to have another attack. She waved her hands in a halting motion, stopping me from moving and silently telling me to stay put.

"…There, it passed." She murmured, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, seeming slightly relieved when it came away clean. I, instinctively, made a low little noise in the back of my throat, a worry sound as I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against her temple, weaving back into her embrace like threads in a tapestry coming together.

"I will help you, mon petit joli caneton." I crooned adoringly, silently thanking that I'd gotten my PhD in immunology. All my knowledge would certainly be of use. I felt Cosima smile, felt the muscles in her face tighten in mirth before I even saw the grin.

"Uhm, I do love when you speak French, but what exactly does that mean? My little jolly can?" she asked, chuckling in a manner that was almost giddy. I couldn't help but be amused by her translation as well. That was another thing I must do, teach her some French.

"It means 'my pretty little duckling'." I giggled. Cosima quirked her eyebrow, making it dance above the frames of her glasses while a blush bloomed upon the apples of her cheeks. The rosy glow of her skin continued down her neck and below the collar of her dress, making me offhandedly wonder how far down it went exactly.

"The duckling thing's going to stick isn't it?" she grumbled, trying to appear irked by it and only managing to look even more amused. I thought it was adorable.

"Oui mon caneton." I replied, watching the blush deepen to a vibrant redness. She scoffed, shoving me playfully before leaning back into my figure, nestling her shorter frame against my side and leaning her head against my shoulder.

"We're going to be okay, right?" she asked tentatively, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. The sound scared me, it reminded me too much of her choking on whatever was ailing her. I pulled her into me, absentmindedly tracing the squiggly watermarks of her veins and arteries upon her inner arm. They were so delicate, so precious, squiggly like the lines upon the map I had to consult in order to find my way to Toronto from Minnesota. To find her, my heart. These faded bluish and purplish trails were just as complex and important, leading to her own heart. I listened to her exhale softly, marvelling at how she felt as she relaxed, tracing her veins and arteries; her heartlines. Cosima whimpered slightly in protest, the delicate sound making my lips curl upwards reflexively, as I leaned back, coaxing her to lie down next to me on what little space there was on this couch. I held her so that she could rest her head upon my chest, not even minding the fact that the pose I lay in was grinding the lower part of my spine against this concrete-filled sofa. The pain coming from my abused back was immaterial when compared to the warm, tingly feeling I got as the shorter woman resumed her contemplative fiddling with our entwined fingers, feeling warm and safe. Despite her poorly-masked protests, she was similar to a little duckling. Small, cute, snuggly, and looking for someone to stand beside her in the brave new world.

"J'espère." I murmured, pulling her a little closer, unable to handle the slightest distance between us, the dim evening light filtering across our entwined forms, making motes of dust spin and dip like dancers in the light of the streetlamps.

"_I hope."_

**A/N Here are the English translations of some of the things that Delphine said, for those who need/want them, and in retrospect my Franglais is a lot better than I thought because I used a lot of French words... anyway, if you don't need the definitions then feel free to scroll past them to click on that pretty little review button, and if you do need the definitions then press the button too, leave me some feedback pretty please? I love hearing what you guys think!**

"_**Ce que des conneries."**_** = "What bullshit" (Even cursing sounds prettier in French)**

"_**Plutôt" = **_**"Instead"**

"_**Je suis l'idiot"**_** = "I am the idiot"**

"_**Chérie" **_**= "Dear/darling"**

"**Juste un peu magique" = "Just a bit magical"**

"_**Terrifiant pour moi"**_** = "Terrifying for me"**

"_**Sois calme"**_** = "Be calm"**

"_**Mouchoirs"**_** = "handkerchiefs/tissues"**

"_**Maintenant"**_** = "Now"**

"_**Tu es un miracle"**_** = "You are a miracle"**

"_**C'est immatériel"**_** = "It's immaterial"**

"_**Comment est-ce qu'on dit"**_** = "How do you say"**

"_**Incroyable"**_** = "Incredible"**

"_**Sensuelle"**_** = "Sultry"**

"_**Un peu"**_** = "a bit/a little"**

"_**Je suis tellement désolée"**_** = "I am very sorry"**

"_**Mes"**_** = "Mine"**

"_**Mon petit joli caneton"**_** = "my pretty little duckling" (as Delphine said)**

**Et finalement (finally)**

"_**J'espere"**_** = "I hope"**


End file.
